


Two Shovels

by blackeyedqueen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood, Bloodplay, F/M, Knifeplay, Murder, POV Ruby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:04:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedqueen/pseuds/blackeyedqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ruby's itching for a kill. She finds Sam instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Shovels

_“You expect me to believe you’ve never done this before?”_

_She’s teasing him. Mostly. Maybe. She’s not sure. She can’t really get a solid read on Sam. But she knows he’s not as clean as he’s trying to lead on._

_He turns to face her for a moment, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he shrugs. “Believe what you want.” He turns back and thrusts his shovel back into the dirt._

_See, Sam hasn’t made the same mistakes that other rookies tend to make on their first (and usually last) time out. He’s patient, calculating. He has a sharp eye and thinks before he acts. He’s not a fool. And she’s damn sure he’s been around the block, that he knows this game and how to play it._

_Ruby takes one last drag from her cigarette, flicks it from her fingers and to the ground, crushing it with the toe of her shoe. She picks it up and puts it in her jacket pocket, like they were never here. Even though they’re deep enough in the woods and no one should even think to find the body here, she takes no risks. She picks up her own shovel and gets to work because, yeah, Sam is faster and stronger, but she’s not useless. Two shovels are better than one._

**

Ruby met him in a bar. She was looking for a victim. Five long months and her hands were itching for sticky dried blood, her nose twitching for the metallic smell. She needed the control. She needed the rush, the adrenaline, the high. Instead she found Sam.

He wasn’t just a pretty face. Sure, he was quiet and sweet, but there was a darkness to him, she could feel it. A secret. He was a mystery that she intended to solve. He was also a really good fuck.

She takes him home, one, three, five times before she accepts that he’s not a passing fad, he’s not just some guy in a bar she’s met.

But he’s still a closed book. She wants to open it, finger the pages, smear the ink with her finger tips, learn every sentence, every word. She’s never felt so intrigued before.

**

She tells him when they’re drunk from whiskey and high from sex. She’s standing in front of the mirror of her dresser, trying to pull her dark thick her up and off her damp neck, the box fan in the window doing nothing to stifle the humidity in the tiny room. Hair needs washed, she thinks absently to herself. A cool shower would be great right now. Perhaps Sam would like to join her.

She turns around to face him laying lazily on the bed, illuminated by the yellow glow of the bedside lamp, with a devilish grin on her lips. She stops cold when she sees him fiddling with her knife. She keeps it in the drawer of the end table. Her father had made it for her years ago, before she was even old enough to hold it. She only brought it out for special occasions.

And Sam, laying there with just a sheet covering him from the waste down, lazily twirls it in his fingers. The light of lamp gleams off the blade.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs. “Great for hunting.”

“My father made it,” she responds quickly.

He nods, and gently places the knife on the table. He looks at her with heavy eyes and a sleepy, drunken smile.

She tilts her head and watches him. Thinks about him holding that knife. Latches on to the idea too tight.

He’s strong enough.

He’s smart enough.

He could definitely be a help in hiding bodies.

He’d be perfect.

She imagines him with blood on his hands, fingers wrapped around her knife and it’s enough to send her back to the bed, crawling on top of him, planting deep passionate kisses on his body.

It feels right. She knows this is the right time and she knows everything will be okay.

The yellow glow bounces off his skin as she straddles his hips, lips softly brushing against his ear as she whispers, “Do you really want to know what I use this knife for, Sam?”

She brings her face in front of his, noses touching, hips grinding.

“Mmm,” he hums, smiling still, “not hunting, I’m guessing.” He smells like liquor and she gets off on it.

“Something like that,” she whispers.

She picks up the knife and lays the blade flat on his cheek, feels the heat radiating from his body, and slides the point slowly, so slowly down his skin to chest, enough pressure to just not quite break skin. When she reaches his chest, she digs it in, just a little bit, leaving a small cut. Sam takes in a sharp breath and moans his exhale as she catches the blood with her fingers.

She holds her bloody fingers up in between them, rubbing it on her fingers, admiring its rich color, its sticky feeling, its sharp scent. “Something about blood, Sam.” Then her eyes meet his as she slowly moves her fingers to her chest and wipes the blood off, smearing it onto her skin.

He watches her, breathing heavy, eyes glassy in awe of her for moment, before he twists around, changing positions, him on top, tiny drops of his blood dripping onto her chest. He carefully takes the knife from her, looks at her hopeful. “Of course, Sam,” she breathes.

He makes the cut on her arm, fingers dipping tentatively into the sticky liquid. A quiet moan escapes his lips as he smears the blood on her skin with his strong but gentle hand. It stings, but not bad. Just enough. Just enough to make her pant and moan.

He thrusts into her and fucks her slow and deep, occasionally moving his hand around in the quickly drying blood on her arm.

When they’re done he collapses next to her, eyes closed, heavy breathing. She expects him to just fall asleep, so she’s surprised when he rolls onto his side to face her.

“Something like hunting?”

“Yes,” she answers, eyes closed.

He’s quiet for a moment and she assumes he’s probably asleep, but she’s surprised again when he says, “Can I join you sometime?”

Now it’s her turn to roll over and look at him, and oh, she can see it in his glassy eyes that he knows exactly what she means, probably has known. She leans in for one more kiss for the night and says, “Of course, Sam. Of course.”

They sleep tangled in each others’ filth.

**

Picking a victim is hard because, who would have guessed, Sam has a moral compass. It can’t be just anyone. What if they have a family, God forbid. Ruby could not care less, but it’s not going to go smooth unless Sam’s whole heart is in it. He’s pickier than she is. She lets him choose.

Sam witnesses a man sexually harassing a woman in the bar. Ruby makes a 'what do you think?' face at him, to which he responds with a stern scowl. Sam watches the woman leave. He watches the man follow. Ruby tries to stop him from following the man, but he wins that round. Her worry dissipates when she notices he knows exactly how to slip around unnoticed, she doesn’t have to tell him anything. She follows closely behind him.

Outside, they stand in the shadows of the parking lot as he watches the man grab the girl. Now she really does have to stop Sam from going after him.

“No!” she hisses, “we’re not ready.”

They watch the man for a week. He lives in a small house alone, works a nine to five, eats shitty take out every night, and then hits a bar or falls asleep watching late night tv. Nights that he goes to the bar are nights where he is the stalker, looking for his prey. He looks for women to objectify, to call names, to touch. By the end of the week, Sam doesn’t just want him dead, he wants his head on a fucking platter.

They’re in his house waiting for him when he comes home drunk one night. They slip in unnoticed, close all the blinds and cut the power. The man stumbles in the door, fumbles with the light and fails. He’s too drunk to notice he’s walking on thick plastic, the kind laid down when painting walls.

Sam catches him off guard and wrestles him to the ground, sitting on top of the man as he struggles beneath him, grunting. Even though it’s dark, Ruby knows he’s smiling as he glides the knife over the man’s skin.

**

They stuff their bloody clothes into garbage bags to be burned the next day and shower under boiling water until their skin is red and raw and the water runs clear and they’re fucking each other fast and rough. Then they wash that off, too. Laying in bed in the dark, taking a drag from her cigarette, she turns to him and says, “So. Do you really expect me to believe you’ve never done this before?”

“I never said that,” he rasps, tired from the night’s efforts.

“So say something, then.”

Sam sighs and then is quiet for a long time. She expects him to not answer. She doesn’t want to press the issue because she’s learned patience is a virtue and he’ll spill when he’s ready. She’s ready to drop it, but he finally says, “No. Not my first time.”

He’s quiet again, and she’s thinking maybe that’s all the information he’s willing to give up, but he continues. “Me and my brother used to… Do this. You know. But with bad people. Kind of like a vigilante justice, I guess.” He huffs out a dry chuckle. “He died, though, my brother. He uh. Just got mixed up in a bad job. We weren’t ready.”

“He died doing good,” she whispers, because she knows enough about Sam to know that this is the type of thing he wants to hear, whether she knows it’s true or not. “Sorry I’m not like him… It must suck to have to—”

“No, no,” he interrupts. “No. With you is good.” He turns over on his side and tangles his fingers with hers. “Don’t hold it against me or anything, but… You saved me. You’re just what I needed.” She smiles at that as he leans in and places a soft kiss on her lips.

“So what’s you’re story, then? Family business? You look like you’ve been doing this way too long.”

Something like that. That’s a story for another day. She runs her fingers through his hair. “What you don’t know about me could fill a book.”

“Well. Can I help you write it?”

She smiles at him through the darkness. “Of course, Sam. All in due time.”

Of course you can write it, Sam. You can write the words in the blood. And she’ll kill any bad guy in the world that you want. As long as you stay.

Because two shovels are better than one


End file.
